


Side by Side by Side

by Annwyd



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annwyd/pseuds/Annwyd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justice disapproves, but maybe not for the reasons he wants Anders to believe. Set during Dragon Age II with reference to Awakening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side by Side by Side

Here in Kirkwall, safely away from the cramped darkness of the Deep Roads, the dreams that invade his sleep aren't always the product of beckoning darkspawn. They are more of a mixed lot, a poisonous concoction of both tainted blood and mangled templar limbs, both the call of monsters and the blank stares of Tranquil faces. And they are always framed at the edges by the ethereal light of the Fade, because he can no longer dream unaware of the realm he steps into as he sleeps; it is now a lost home to part of him.

Anders wakes on the other side of the bed from Hawke with that Fade-drawn fog still clouding his head. He can't shake the image of phantom footsteps cutting through him, as if Justice were pacing in his skull. There's only one thing to do on nights like this.

He drags himself out of the bed, stumbles into a robe which he draws tight about his body, and stokes the logs in the fireplace. He settles in at the desk. Hawke keeps quill and parchment there for him. He has to write. He has to refine his manifesto. He has to do something just and right.

Anders's hand shakes as the memory of Hawke's kiss parts the mists in his brain, and even though he tries to write, he still feels the wordless disapproval press in on him.

It hurts more that it's so wordless, really. He remembers measured conversations in which Justice, speaking out of that drawn and withered mouth, put together phrase after phrase to draw him out of his shell and imbue him with courage. They had such discussions over the fires of Vigil's Keep, while Anders sought respite from the watchful templar eyes that the Wardens had sold him out to after the Hero of Ferelden left. In that unfamiliar glow of friendship was Anders first able to put love for his fellow mage above the fear that had so long kept his gaze darting or lowered and his hands clutched defensively around a staff he used to defend himself alone. Justice had thought him worth convincing to stand for something. Justice had told him he had it in him.

Now there is only that weight of disapproval. Justice does still communicate in words sometimes, but it's difficult. Anders can feel the edges of their souls fray a little more with every word passed between them. The easiest way for Justice to speak is to take control of Anders's tongue, and he still tries to refrain from doing that. He knows no mercy, but he does know fairness.

Fervently, Anders writes. He doesn't know what he's writing, but if he gets it down he can be Justice's _friend_ again, can't he? He can repair the damage he's already done to this once-virtuous being and soothe the mangled fury of Vengeance back into the purity he had before he was tainted by this faulty human heart. Then they can _all_ be friends or more, Hawke and Justice and Anders, can't they? No, no. More disapproval. He must do this for the mages, not for his own feelings. His own feelings betray the cause every night, in bed with Hawke. This Justice has made clear. Yes. He feels the firm agreement with that statement echoing in his head now.

"No," Anders whispers suddenly, his hand digging into the parchment where he holds it steady. He thinks: That isn't just. That isn't right. I love Hawke. I love him as I've never dared love before, and weren't you the one who taught me that I should dare to act on what burns in my soul?

Denial, denial, it isn't the same. Anders cannot draw Hawke into this fight; _that_ would be unjust. Besides--

(Something beyond disapproval and denial flutters in the pressure of Justice's belief, now, but Anders is struggling too hard to maintain his own self in the face of the onslaught to investigate what it is.)

Besides, don't all the stories that mortals tell of pure and righteous love feature the holy marriage of a man and a woman? Anders is endangering Hawke not just by dragging him into the revolution, but by destroying his chance at a relationship that would let him rebuild his family and lineage. Surely that is unjust...and yet for only a moment Anders cannot feel the weight of Justice's disapproval, merely his own shame.

He tries to write, hoping desperately that Hawke will not stir and wake. The light from the fire is still low, barely enough for him to make out what he writes...

But the quill falters in his hands now, because his vision has finally cleared enough to make out what he has written. It is no manifesto. It is no argument. It is no cry for freedom.

Anders slowly traces the lines on the parchment, feeling the wet ink smudge slightly onto his fingers as he does so. He whispers the words aloud. "My dearest: all the darkness in the world strives to keep me from you. It will not last."

 **  
_Stop!_   
**

But Anders is rapt, and he ignores Justice's plea. "Light will prevail, and I will lay down my arms to return to yours, because in truth you are that light. Your name evokes a mere glow, but I have known you and I know better. You are no faint halo but the sun itself. I..." Where did this come from? Is there more?

 ** _Do not wonder at such things!_** Justice is begging now. Anders feels him aching to seize control of the hand they share and crumple the paper. **_Destroy it. You must destroy it!_**

Bewildered and still weary from his short sleep, Anders acquiesces. He isn't sure whether he cedes control to Justice or acts on his own, but the next thing he knows the strange missive is balled up in his hand and he's thrusting his fist into the flames of the fireplace to drop the offending parchment. When he regains control from either the spirit within or his own desperation, his fingers sting with burns. Ash and ink mix to stain them.

Anders hisses under his breath and calls up a healing spell. The power soothes both his flesh and his heart. For the first time tonight, he and Justice are in harmony: he is using a gift granted to him to ease pain. That is correct. That is just.

But, against Justice's commands, he wonders.

"What was it?" he mutters to the air. "What was that letter?"

It's too late to ask; Justice has retreated in his skull beyond where words can pass. But an image escapes him, and in it a woman tenderly folds both her hands into the outstretched palm of a man in the armor of the Wardens, and there she leaves a single shining locket...


End file.
